


this wide night and the distance between us

by rhosyndu



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26527819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyndu/pseuds/rhosyndu
Summary: The expedition to the Antartic is over.ErebusandTerrorare halfway to England and home and, as pleased as he is to be returning to his fiance, James Clark Ross worries about his second becoming lonely.AU in which James Clark Ross managed to get James Fitzjames as Gunnery Lieutenant for the Antartic Expedition as he wanted.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames/Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31
Collections: The Two Captains Fest 2020





	this wide night and the distance between us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



> For the prompt: "I keep thinking about James Fitzjames joining the Antarctic expedition as Ross had wanted. I have a vague idea about Ross giving JFJ some tips on ladies’ wear and then showing him off to Francis. Sort of matchmaking them because he knows he’s going back to England and marrying Ann and wants Francis to have someone." 
> 
> Thank you to paintedfences for hand holding, and to vivicaine for a last minute beta.

“I thought we could have a small party tonight,” says James.

It is warm seated in Erebus’s great room. Crossing the tropic has raised the mercury in the glass; the certain knowledge that they are homeward bound is a spring of joy in the belly that warms the soul; and the good dinner they have eaten has certainly done an earthy version of the same -- and the steady flow of whisky has done its part too. 

“Of course,” Francis meets his first’s smile with one of his own honest offerings. An unfair exchange he knows, but Ross has never once made that complaint. “I’m sorry I didn’t dress for the occasion,” he jokes.

They have a few hours before Francis will need to be rowed back to Terror. Why not pass a few pleasant hours abed?

James tips his head, chin rising, and his conspirator grin broadens. “I’ve invited one of the Lieutenants to join us.”

“Oh.” The warm feeling in every limb is doused with sudden ice water. James cannot be saying-? Perhaps he has misunderstood. “I thought you meant--”

“I did.” James gestures with a loose, easy hand towards his cabin. “But I have been thinking--”

“Never been your strong point.” Francis takes another sip of whisky as he tries to get his thoughts back to order and points at James with his glass. His stomach churns. “Most men check that they aren’t stood under a tree when they’re trying to fish.” The chaffing comes as natural and easy as ever, far easier than thinking about what James is suggesting.

Sadly, James does not go for the baited hook and tease Francis back like he would normally -- a shame, it had taken a good half hour and he had turned the air blue before James had freed his fishing line from the tree that day and Francis feels the smirk playing at his mouth in remembrance. 

Now though, James’ brows are lowered and his mouth thinned: he looks serious. “We’re nearly returned to England. I’m going to my Ann, at long last, and I was thinking about how -- I don’t want you to be lonely, old man.” 

“Lonely?” Francis shakes his head. Clears his throat to empty the sudden gravel from his voice. “I’m not lonely.” 

“Coulman has only given his permission because I’ve said I’ll give up the service.” God’s truth, James sounds upsettingly concerned for him.

“I’m sure there will be something to occupy me once we’re home,” Francis tells him. “I might rush for the harness like you do after this.” He pretends he sounds carefree, unbothered. “Sophia is very fond of me.” And that is both true and not, no matter how lightly he says the words. Sophia may be fond of him, the man, but she is not fond of him, the sailor; and her family cannot be said to approve of either.

James leans a little sideways to catch Francis’ eye from where it dances over his shoulder. The care in his face makes Francis’ heart ache: it nearly looks like love. He knows it is not and yet his heart still lurches to see it. “But you are a sailor to the bone, Frank, you need someone on board ship who sees you.” James reaches out and places a kind hand on Francis’ knee.

Francis pulls at his whisky and nods unhappily to the words he doesn’t want to agree with. Who needs to see him but James? He is well aware he suits being aboard a ship; he has been a sailor since he was twelve and fits here in a way that he never does on land. 

“I have an excellent steward,” he says. It’s on par with saying I have an excellent nightstand or looking glass-- but there’s only so close one can get with one’s crew. “The discipline of the ship has to come first.” 

A thin excuse, and James gives him a familiar, unimpressed look for it that says he shall drag Francis into doing what is right for himself, no matter how much or little he wants it. He’s done it before, often at parties, parties he’s insisted upon Francis’ invitation to -- heavens know that his hosts would not have invited him of their own accord -- but that is James to his core: he will make the world give up what he wants, when he wants. “As you like. But I’m still having a small party tonight.”

How can Francis refuse when the world cannot? Still, he tries. “I don’t know, James, we--” 

“Well, I do know, Frank, which is why I've invited Fitzjames to join us.”

“Fitzjames?”

“Do you have an objection?”

Yes, many. The man is a showy young thing, full of hot air and tall tales of his own intrepid adventures. He is not bad at his post, not truly bad -- but he is so much artifice. Francis has never cared for a shiny veneer, only for the worth underneath. “No,” says Francis.

“He shows a fine leg, and an excellent seat.”

“Little wonder you requested him.” 

James had written to get Fitzjames for the expedition and it had been a close run thing -- by all accounts the lad had made a good showing of himself and had nearly been posted to the Ganges. On paper, he sounds like an excellent fellow, it is only that in the flesh the gunnery Lieutenant of the Erebus grates against Francis’ nerves.

Is it the pretty face? Is it that Fitzjames turns to face Ross whenever the man enters the room, like a child desperate to impress? Is it that Fitzjames stands like a man in a newsprint etching, like every moment is a grand thing worthy of note? Francis has seen this plenty of times before -- and so has James. In honesty, he’s not at all surprised that Fitzjames has volunteered to be bedded, only that James has fallen for the act.

“I picked him for you.”

“Because you will enjoy none of this?” Francis returns, wryly.

“Oh, I shall enjoy myself thoroughly.” He always does. His entire life James has enjoyed himself and Francis can begrudge him none of it. The opportunities, the success, the praise -- all the things denied to him and that he should hate a man less generous, less good a sailor, less true a friend for.

“When’s he joining us?”

“Any moment now; I told him nine bells,” James says.

Depending on how prompt the little sod is, that gives Francis less than five minutes. “And you didn’t mention this sooner.”

“Because you’d make your excuses if I let you.”

Irritation prickles over the back of Francis’ neck and he pulls at his collar. “I might leave anyway.”

“No, you won’t,” James tells him. He leans back in his chair and stretches his fine, long legs out before him. He is horribly correct. Truly, that prickling irritation on Francis’ neck is at himself. 

“I’ve lost my mood for gaiety.”

“Must you be so sour every time I give you a present?” James sounds rather more amused, almost indulgent, than put out.

“An unasked for present that I do not--”

There is a rap at the door. Francis mutters a curse into his glass.

“Come in, Lieutenant.”

“Good evening, Captain.” Fitzjames has been blessed with an accursedly lovely voice, rich and mellifluous. “Captains,” he corrects smoothly. His dark eyes flick to Francis and then back to Ross. 

Francis watches a small line of uncertainty creep onto the man’s forehead, and then his hand comes up to stroke back his already perfect hair and restore smooth perfection to his brow as well. He’s wearing his epaulettes. Surely -- surely James laid the ground beforehand? Surely he knows what is going to happen here, that it’s not just a drink in the Captain’s cabin that he’s coming to? Surely he’s not put on his dress uniform to come and be sodomised by the Captain? Francis has been rowed over from Terror and has not put in half the effort this fool has to walk a scant dozen feet.

It’s Fitzjames, Francis reflects, of course he’s dressed himself to be fucked.

“A drink? Frank, pour the chap some Scotch, won’t you?”

Francis does as he’s told. Having dashed a measure out for Fitzjames he has to hold the drink just so to ensure that their fingers do not brush as he hands the glass over. Why he bothers he’s not sure; if James gets his way it’ll be more than their fingers brushing.

He refills his own drink and pointedly places the decanter near James’ glass rather than fill it for him. Unruffled, James pours his own and holds his Scotch aloft. 

“Our wives and sweethearts.” 

“May they never meet,” Francis and Fitzjames reply, asynchronous and awkward.

Francis tries to catch his friend’s eye. James fusses with his cuff, hums, and stands, Francis’ eye deliberately uncaught. “You gentlemen will have to excuse me a moment,” he says, as though the conversation was mid flow, and then steps into his cabin and closes the door.

“I hope I’ve not caused the captain any offence,” Fitzjames says. “He did say nine bells, after all.”

Francis waves his words away. “You’re fine.”

Fitzjames leans back in his chair a little, and Francis slowly realises that the man is aping his own slouch.

“You and the Captain have known each other some years.”

“Yes.”

“It must be wonderful to count someone so admired as a friend.”

“It is.”

“I believe you may know my friend, John Barrow, Jr? The son of the permanent secretary--” 

As though there’s an officer in the service who wouldn’t know Barrow Snr. “You’ve mentioned some of your connections before.”

Francis knows it is unfair of him to goad someone under his command, unfair to hamstring the man in conversation when his being here is less his own choosing and more Ross’ choice. He knows it, but he’ll be damned if he behaves.

Fitzjames takes a sip of his drink. “I have a little favour there,” he says deliberately, his eyes raking Francis’ face. 

“I have no doubt of that.”

The door to James’ cabin opens, and he steps back into the room. Francis turns in his chair to give him a reproachful look.

“Lieutenant, step here, won’t you? Good chap.”

“What--” says Francis, as Fitzjames says: “Certainly,” with an easy charm.

“Good things in good time,” James tells him, and the door closes once again, this time with low murmuring voices behind it.

He could leave, Francis muses. Leave them to their game of silly buggers. Call for the gig to be made ready and go back to his own bunk and pass the evening in peace. Perhaps he will read. Perhaps he shall go straight to sleep. 

He wonders how he will feel, lying there, lamp extinguished, knowing that Fitzjames is in his place, on his knees for James. That the quiet breaths, the firm guiding hands, the muttered praise -- such sweet gifts -- are all dropped on another man’s head.

Francis rubs at a spot of indigestion. Perhaps he has had too much whisky on an excellent dinner. 

He could rise. (He does not). He draws his fingers on the table, following the grain of the wood, the whorl around a knot. He drinks.

The door finally opens. “What kept y--”

James steps out from his narrow cabin, his mouth reddened, his lips slightly puffy. Francis straightens in his chair. Excepting the missing stock at his throat James is as he was when he stepped into his room. Fitzjames is not. 

Fitzjames now wears a curling russet wig and a beautiful and familiar dress. Francis cannot grimace at it, not when James is watching him, but the unwitting cruelty of it strikes Francis like an open palm. His chest hurts, his cheek flushes pink. 

It’s the dress that James had worn to the ice ball when he played at being Miss Ross. He had shown Francis in here the night before, laughing and pleased with himself for how well he’d transformed himself. Francis had teased James for dressing as a woman, for his usual tricks, told him it was old hat -- James had replied and said in that case he should wear his newest bonnet, smile creasing his delighted eyes. 

At the ball they had opened the dance floor together; James hadn’t been the only officer to wear a dress -- far from it, and many of the men had seemed delighted at the prospect too -- but he’d been the only one that Francis can remember looking at. Every limb in Francis’ body had felt like it had been filled with champagne, bubbling, delighted, giddy. They had danced, and something in Francis’ chest came unmoored and slipped into open waters before he could catch the rope and haul it back in. The rush, the joy? The upswell and delight? They had been friends before that dance, and were friends still. They had lain together before it, and lain together after, but that short dance was when Francis saw what he wanted and did not have, would never have.

In the middle of a party, drowning in merriment, he’d caught his foot on the only lead weight and found himself unable to shake himself free and swim to shallow waters.

He’s never felt the slightest twinge of jealousy towards Ann. Charming girl, beautiful woman, an excellent wife for James. They shall make a handsome pair, and make handsome children too. No, what man could be jealous of a wife? It’s not like he could ever truly be one for James, for all that he has played one for him. 

“What do you think?” James prods.

Powdered and painted, Fitzjames is an undeniably pretty thing. It is not that he would fool anyone into thinking him a lady, but this delicate artifice suits him. His jaw looks no less square but still softened; his eyes seem darker, larger; his mouth is painted a degenerate red and he catches that scarlet lip under his sharp teeth when his eyes meet Francis’ own. He looks coy, almost nervous.

“Very nice.” 

James stands behind Fitzjames and takes hold of him by the waist, turning him in his arms. He runs a smoothing hand up Fitzjames’ side, sliding to his chest to cup at a bosom that’s not there. “From Frank ‘very nice’ is a glowing praise indeed,” he murmurs into Fitzjames’ ear. 

For a fast, fleeting moment Fitzjames looks uncertain, but then James catches his chin in his hand and holds it just so as he brings their mouths together. From where he is sat Francis gets to watch the press of lips, the stretch of strong jaw, Fitzjames’ red mouth opening as James presses in, the quick pink flash of tongue. Fitzjames stretches his arms to encircle James’ neck, fingers stroking his cheek and twisting in the tresses of his hair, whole body leant back against James’ in a showy display. James’ hand finger-crawls down to hike up the dress’s skirts, strokes over the revealed skin and shows those well turned legs beneath to Francis. 

Fitzjames’ legs are bare, no stockings, and Francis is surprised by the scandalous feeling that gives him.

James breaks from Fitzjames and smiles at Francis. “Are you just going to sit there all evening?”

“You’re occupying yourself well enough.”

James gives Fitzjames a little push towards Francis, and he moves dutifully closer, wedges a flirtatious simper more fully into place, steps between Francis’ legs and then lightly lays a hand on his chest. Francis watches him do it with the almost tangible weight of James' eyes upon him, upon them both, and keeps his own running up the dressed doll before him. He plucks at the dress, pulls the man in it close and closes his eyes before their mouths meet. He can smell James. Not the James he kisses, not the James under his hands and in his lap, but his James, the real James. The perfume is the same as he wore to the ball: a mix of orange blossom and jonquil, and Francis inhales deeply through his nose. The textured fabric under his fingers is the same, his hands almost believe he’s touching James. 

The kiss is different. Slow, following instead of pressing and searching; if James kisses like a conquering hero, firm and certain, Fitzjames kisses like a dewy eyed courtesan, with a languid invitation. Francis doesn’t know if he likes it; his prick is yet to stir. Fitzjames’ hands are light, almost tickling on him. Francis opens his eyes and looks to James, whose eyes are pleased, half closed, glittering in the lamp light. He beckons to James and asks, “Won’t you be joining us?”

Fitzjames eagerly backs the offer made, swaying his body towards the handsomest man in the room. He’s done this before, Francis realises distantly. Perhaps he’s been doing it his whole life. 

James makes a little wave with his hand, play on, and rests his hip more snugly against the table.

The moment curdles with sour self consciousness. Francis heistates, swallows, sets his head back. It is absurd, and should it have been anyone but James who asked this of him he would have refused and left at the outset. Fitzjames slowly returns himself to Francis' lap, one hand drifting to his cheek, fingers tracing where the paint has rubbed off around Francis' mouth. Fitzjames’ face is a perfect pretty mask, smile barely shifting. The static quality of it makes Francis wants to pull his hair, slap his face, see the crack in the veneer.

He settles for asking: “Are you a good cunt, lad?” and slips a hand under the skirts. Hot coarse palm over cool flanks, soft and almost hairless thighs.

Fitzjames barely startles. His mouth moves, his brows wrinkle and smooth out again briefly. “The best,” he returns. The light glints off his teeth as he speaks.

Francis' searching fingers find: lace, and soft fabric that catches on his rough hands. Bloomers. He sees a grin flare to life on Fitzjames’ face at the surprise that must show on his own. He follows the seam of the fabric, finds the split and traces the edge as it runs alongside Fitzjames’ ready prick and bollocks, down and back, tickling at the edge of his arsehole with his thumb before drawing his hand forward again. He watches Fitzjames’ face. “A well used mare, or a new filly who needs breaking in?”

“I have ridden before.”

He runs his hand up Fitzjames’ prick, wraps his fingers loosely for a teasing, unsatisfactory half-slide along it. Catches Fitzjames’ foreskin lightly, dips his thumb in the gathering wetness there. “Could you take my hand?”

“Take your hand?” Fitzjames looks confused, glances at Francis' right hand resting on his waist. Francis slips his left down and back and taps two barely damp fingers against James' arsehole, before pushing one fingertip inside. He uses his thumbnail to scratch lightly at Fitzjames’ taint.

Fitzjames breathes out. His tongue catches on his lower lip.

“Aye, my whole hand. Stretch you out with my fingers, work your womanhood open, get it as wet and loose as a dockside whore and use it with as much care.” 

Fitzjames makes another aborted start but before he can speak properly Francis stops his lips with his own fingers, lets them brush Fitzjames’ mouth as his other hand draws small circles in Fitzjames’ skin, and says: “Of course, I’ll let James finish where I start.” 

“Oh, will you?” says James.

Francis keeps his eyes on Fitzjames, like he wouldn’t swap this James for that in the space of a heartbeat. “I’m not an ungenerous man. I’m always happy to share my presents with you.” 

“What if I wish to start?” James steps away from his perch, comes close and touches the nape of Fitzjames’ neck lightly, brushes the small downy hairs there before placing a careless kiss atop the spot. 

“You’d do me out of my gift?”

Fitzjames is restless in Francis' lap, shifting impatiently, squirming and rubbing against Francis. He pointedly sucks Francis' silencing fingers into his mouth, laves them, drools over them, sloppy-keen. Francis drags his hand out of Fitzjames’ mouth, scraping his fingers against Fitzjames’ sharp teeth and digs his thumb in beneath Fitzjames’ jaw, firm, holding his head in place as he would an impatient horse.

“Alright lad, if you’re so desperate for it, let’s see you run that mouth.”

Fitzjames’ eyes are almost black, hungry and imperious. He reaches for Francis but stops when Francis tuts and points to the watching James. “First Captain gets first service.”

James raises his eyebrows. 

“I’ll enjoy myself, don’t you worry,” says Francis, and wonders if his smile is the grimace it feels like.

James throws a small pot of grease to Francis that he catches easily. He opens it slowly. He drags his fingers through the liniment, giving them a thorough coating, and watches as Fitzjames goes smoothly on his knees to James, pulls down his Captain’s half opened breeches, plucks his shirt free and bends to James’ prick. Francis can’t see his face but he can tell the moment his lips touch James’ skin by the way James’ mouth twitches, the dimple in his cheek showing for one brief second.

Francis takes his place behind Fitzjames, lifts the skirts of his dress and places a broad hand flat on the smooth, white skin. Firm, lovely, so like James’. If it were he before him now Francis would put his mouth to tender skin and place kisses in the most unspeakable of places. Kiss and lick and coax with adoration until firm muscle gave way, should James ever ask that of him. He runs his hand over the cool skin again. He wants to slap it -- and indulges himself one firm stroke, the crack of skin on skin loud in the room. Fitzjames jerks and makes a complaining noise, and James murmurs, “Steady, old man, I almost became Jewish there.”

The thrown up skirt blocks most of Francis' view so he cannot watch clearly, but he can still see the smooth bob of the back of Fitzjames’ head and neck. He can still see the shift of James’s arms and knows that he will have one hand curled around himself, feeding his prick into Fitzjames’ mouth, fingers running against where lips meet skin, playing with the spit damp wetness as Fitzjames’ mouth sinks and rises over him. 

Frank always closes his eyes when he takes James into his mouth. He worries what James might see if he keeps them open.

There’s no sound of choking from Fitzjames, no clumsy noises, just soft sloppy-damp sounds of enthusiastic cocksucking. “A sweet tart, aren’t you?” Francis mutters. “A natural molly, wanting to service sailors.” He shoves one thick greased finger right in, and Fitzjames’ body seizes up around the intruder. Is the tension in his flanks anger or surprise, Francis wonders, distantly. Whichever it is, it changes none of his keen attentions to James’ cock, and Francis twists and pushes with the same lack of care that he gives himself when he’s trying to open his body for James. 

“A lovely hot quim for me to fill.” Francis growls as his prick lies as limp as cold clay between his legs. “I’m going to bugger you, have you rough as I like and leave you unable to walk properly for days.” 

James makes a pleased hum. “Hurry up, Frank, or I’ll be done before you start.”

Francis pulls at the cheek of Fitzjames’ arse, holding him open with one hand as he works him with the other. He’s got two fingers in now, stretching and twisting, and if he were abed with James he would be saying he’s ready for it -- and would be. His desperation for James to not know how unwanted his gift is claws at the back of his throat. Fitzjames is pretty, he’s well shaped, he’s eager to please and perform -- and none of it draws an appetite. 

His prick is working fine, damn him. Red and hard and dripping come, little trails of it running down and off his bollocks, staining the drawers bunched around his knees. It slaps wetly against his belly as he rolls and rocks, meeting Francis’ thrusting strokes.

The skirts on the dress obscure Francis' crotch from James for the most part. He could pretend to mount the lad and-- no. He could pretend to finish untouched-- no. His own words come back to him and his heart leaps at the sudden idea.

Francis grunts and fumbles the buttons on his breeches open, spits in his palm and shoves his free hand inside, working the dead meat of his cock like he’s frigging himself with abandon. He traces the rim of Fitzjames’s arsehole with a third finger, coaxing it just a little, then wriggle-coax-shoves it into the hot clutch of Fitzjames. “You’ll take my whole hand, won’t you? I’ll push right inside you and watch it disappear.” To Francis' surprise, Fitzjames moans around James’ prick and arches back, rolls his hips back onto Francis’ pushing hand, meeting the thrusts as they come.

He bites his lip to hide his surprise and looks up and realises he will never have such a good position as this to watch James again, James with his cheeks flushed and hair shining and distracted by Fitzjames’ mouth on him. His hands are on Fitzjames’ head: one hand cradling the man’s jaw, the other encircling his throat, holding him in place as James thrusts. Fitzjames does not gag and Francis envies him. 

“You’ll take what you’re given, won’t you?” he snaps, working his strokes deep and hard, not caring if they satisfy or sting. “Take it and say thank you and ask for more, you’re that kind of whore, aren’t you?”

Francis has never watched James finish before. James drops his head, and Frank only recognises what’s coming by the hitch of his breathing and almost forgets to keep up his work as he watches. One day, he thinks, there is going to be a last time. Here, now, eyes on James’ handsome face it feels both distantly unreal and a looming threat.

Sweat beads on James’ lip, a frown gathers, his face crumples, tightens up -- and smooths out. 

Francis takes that as his cue. He speeds up his palming, stops abruptly, grunts and half curls up, mocks a shiver and exhales heavily, then pulls his hand out from his breeches and wipes it on Fitzjames’ thigh. 

Fitzjames is still hard, his prick twitching and leaking as he rocks impatiently on the fingers still in him. Francis holds him in place by the flank and makes the final push. He wonders, as he works Fitzjames, if James has noticed his deception, has looked at the drying smear of spit and noticed something wrong with his performed crisis. He hopes not. He hopes he has been convincing enough, as the thought of James’ realisation makes him stutter in his mechanical movements. He twists his palm in Fitzjames a little, stretches his fingers, rub-roll-pushes and ignores his aching wrist as he seeks the spot that will bring this all to an end -- Fitzjames gasps, gasps again, little shivery gasps and hisses yes. Yes-yes-please-yes-yesyesyesyes. No, thinks Francis, no, he shan’t know. The thought of the light dimming in James’ face, of the confusion and hurt that the realisation would bring -- James musn’t ever know. He can’t think of it. 

Francis reaches beneath Fitzjames and works him from without as does within. Fitzjames’ cock is hot and dripping, wet and running with it. He bucks back onto Francis' hand and forward into the circle of his fingers, gooseflesh shivering out on his skin. He shakes and moans and comes, half collapsing, falling onto his elbows and his head nearly striking the floor.

The abrupt silence feels loud.

Francis pulls his hand out, slowly. He’s not a beast. For all he doesn't care for him he doesn’t want to actually hurt the lad; he even helps Fitzjames pull down his skirts now they’re done. He doesn’t know where to look. Usually the aftermath is a moment of flushed cheeks and laughter, then he or James will fall back into their earlier conversation like nothing had happened. Instead he feels numb.

Fitzjames pushes himself upright and picks up his whisky. “I’ll be feeling that tomorrow,” he says with familiar braggadocio. 

“And the night after, I have no doubt.”

Fitzjames grins at James. “Worth every twinge.”

“If I were a younger man I should suggest another round.”

“You’re in fine form, Captain, I don’t doubt you could make the showing.”

Francis pulls out a handkerchief and wipes off his hand, slowly, scrubs between the fingers as though there’s something there and belatedly realises he should say something. “The flesh doesn’t always listen to the spirit.” It sounds half hearted to his ears.

Fitzjames gives him a strange look. “Permission to wash up?” he asks James, gesturing at the cabin and the washbasin therein.

“Granted.”

Once Fitzjames is in James’ room Francis says: “I’d best be off.”

“What? Won’t you stay, Frank?”

“I am not good at soft words.”

James scoffs. “What soft words are needed?”

Francis smooths down his clothes and swallows. “Thank him for me, will you?

“Thank him?”

“Oh, you know -- say whatever you think best.”

“I-- Frank.” James takes hold of Francis’ arm. “Hold a moment. Did you -- not enjoy that?”

“I did,” he lies.

James looks at him with a frown and Francis realises he has to do better. Let James think that he is shame-faced, let James be appalled at Francis’ bad manners -- but James would be wounded if he were ever to realise how he has forced Francis’ hand. And that is a hurt he cannot, will not abide. He rallies. “I should have liked to not have finished so soon.”

“Oh!” exclaims James, concern gone and amusement back. “Oh, he’ll not care about that.”

“Still. Let me have my dignity. A bad first time…” he trails off. 

“He enjoyed himself,” James says confidently.

“As did we all. But he will be a while changing, and it’s best that I should return to my ship and see what McMurdo’s done to it while I’ve been away.”

James lets him go with little fuss, and Frank excuses himself every invitation to Erebus until England is once again in sight.


End file.
